Poetry |
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There is no sunrise this morning;
instead, a stealthy fog blurring earth and sky, a sweet communion. New spring's tentative efforts Have a Feininger delicacy. What a gentle day! A tangle of near branches against the distant mist are outlines of our intent, sketchy plans of work to be done, hopes extended, dreams to be realized. But no hurry. We stir our soul to wake up while Impressionist softness hovers over the hills. All cars are grey, moving slowly, people walking on the hazy street bend cautiously, steps at a reflective pace. All peaceable things are possible; fears of cold indifference from our leaders have dissipated. War, aggression, terrorism are words the encompassing fog obscures. Only when the whisper of mist evanesces will we see the graphic realism: Billions for bombs, for vengeance, though we can't quite find our enemy and children hunger and die and justice lives alongside those with power while the little people -- Stop! Spring has come! Meandering mists shroud the city in an illusion of gentleness and peace. Who knows when we will be so lucky again? July 3, 2003
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